Waking from Nightmares
by Alma Heart
Summary: Vincent's past haunts him and he is forever regretful of his actions with Lucrecia. But his past also forever dictated another's fate...Sephiroth refused to die after AC and so clings to life, wounded and sick. Will Vincent let Lucrecia's son die again?
1. Returned Again

Vincent regarded the rubble of the Shinra building with some trepidation. It was distasteful to return here again, even years later. But after the Remnants he felt compelled to make certain no further threats concealed themselves among these massive shards of concrete. So here he was, perusing collapsed rubble once a monument of the greatest and most terrible enterprise on the planet.

Long practice suppressing memory allowed him to enter that wretched manmade jungle without much uneasiness, crossing into the mutilated fragments of Shinra's fall. The destruction wreaked by Cloud's latest battle left the skeleton of the building barely upright. Intricate kaleidoscopes of shattered glass and half-melted steel obscured his way, and at times he climbed over entire sections of the fallen giant. Due to the short time since the new destruction, nothing stirred, no small animals or human voices to break the eerie silence. Vincent was accustomed to quiet, however, and did not find it overly oppressive. The sun was bright, the air, miraculously, somewhat crisp, with only a slight taste of mako to remind of what had been. The path was not arduous, the sky clear. Absurd as it was, this was passable, acceptable.

Perhaps that heralded change in and of itself.

He paused in the shadow of a shattered wall, looking up at the shambles standing proudly and futilely into the sky. How odd it seemed now destroyed. Even if much of his past lay elsewhere, it affected something deep to see Shinra both thankfully and terribly brought down. Memory of thousands of atrocities and innocent deaths before that final end lay splintered beneath his feet.

Walking from the shadow into sunlight briefly blinded him, and he stopped, able to discern only blurry shapes of light striking the surfaces before him. When his eyes adjusted, he froze.

A first instant of pure shock, Vincent staring blankly at the man before him.

He knew him at once; impossible he would not, but he'd never seen him like this. Silver hair harsh and bright in his memory was dust-covered, streaked with blood and something blacker. His stance listed unstably, slumped shoulders and crooked weight distribution, as if he were limping. He carried the sword, he could not do otherwise, but the point dipped dangerously low, barely above the ground.

Everywhere, over exposed skin and leather and armor, flashes of red and something darker marked wounds. Something that looked like black blood branched across his sword hand, seeping in thin trails between the fingers and dripping slowly from the blade's hilt. A black rivulet trailed down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

And, most unnatural, Vincent's surprise did not set him at a disadvantage; briefly it seemed the other hadn't noticed him.

Sephiroth raised his head and seared Vincent with his eyes. Vincent stared. Neither moved.

Seconds dragged by as Vincent saw something else very wrong. Sephiroth's eyes flickered erratically, first bright as if in anger then near fading away, leaving the irises a sickly grey. Sephiroth seemed unaware of the change.

A sudden shudder of instinct broke the trance, his gun aimed at Sephiroth's heart, and Vincent breathed.

In the same instant, Sephiroth raised his sword. Masamune caught the ground before clearing it, the horrible shriek echoed jaggedly in the deathly quiet. Then again they stood, watching each other.

Vincent hated his own hesitation. Cerberus did not waver. He could probably hit Sephiroth, the ex-SOLDIER could be slowed by injury enough for the shot to land. But would that even kill him? Cloud had destroyed him two days ago, and yet here he stood, battered, but quite clearly alive.

And, curse it, a familiar guilt coiled deep in his gut whenever he saw Lucrecia's face on this man. After all, had he been stronger, then...would things have gone differently for Sephiroth, too?

Enough past. Focus. Finish it now.

And yet, f_inish it?_ Blood dripped off Sephiroth's hair, mesmerizing Vincent as it fell. _We killed him, and then Cloud once again...what could finish it...?_

Something hardened in Sephiroth's features, an internal power making his eyes flash even as they flickered. The sword shifted slightly, commanding Vincent's attention in anticipation of the attack. Vincent's claws curled instinctively.

Sephiroth watched him coldly. "Well, are you going to shoot me, Valentine?" He spoke quietly, words falling sharp and clear among Shinra's cold shards.

Hearing his name on this man's tongue unnerved Vincent. His trigger finger ached from tension. Marshalling his self control, he narrowed his eyes. "Sephiroth," he returned, taking strange satisfaction in mastering the name. "How are you back again?"

Rhetorical of course; Sephiroth only gave megalomaniac speeches when he chose. And yet the ex-SOLDIER narrowed his eyes and frowned, as though he might actually answer. Another involuntary flash lit his eyes and in puzzlement Vincent though he saw something like pain cloud Sephiroth's focus.

The expression was gone far too fast to confirm, overtaken by a sneer. "Go ahead, Valentine," Sephiroth said. "Kill me. Put me out of my misery for a time." Standing tall, he pivoted Masamune aside, smirk widening. A strange, ragged edge left his voice rough, as Vincent had never heard him before. "I can't vouch for permanence, though. She always seems to drag me back."

Vincent stared at Sephiroth, startled. These words, even this voice, were irreconcilable with the man Cloud had fought just days before, who murdered Aerith, summoned Meteor and attempted to destroy the world. Vincent had heard him; that Sephiroth never showed uncertainty, never spoken of Jenova as less than a god. That man did not stand still and offer his life. Vincent had never even seen that man _bleed._

And that smile wasn't his either. Sephiroth smirked slightly, even as he offered Vincent an undefended shot. Not the smile he would have recognized; the madness and barbarous glee of two years ago, mocking and arrogant and cruel. No, Vincent had seen this look before too. But long ago, in turk days, on the smirking faces of defeated opponents as they stood to fall.

Sephiroth smiled, seeing in him his death. Daring him. And Vincent, seeing the bared teeth of that smirk, uncaring and defiant, could almost believe his free shot would indeed fall undefended if fired.

Sudden movement broke the stalemate, almost startling Vincent to shoot. Liar!

But, when rationality caught instinct, he realized Sephiroth wasn't attacking at all. Head bowed, eyes closed, Sephiroth bit down on his hand as a sound like raw meat against rock broke the silence. Vincent blinked. Sephiroth coughed again, again, bone deep, hacking convulsions that rattled his entire body.

Snatching a whistling breath, Sephiroth loosened his teeth, glancing at his hand dazedly. Vincent saw it too, black liquid mixed with blood catching the light as it dripped from the fingers. The drops sparkled oddly as they fell, green almost, before spattering to the ground.

Sephiroth watched intently, another flash in his eyes making the expression unreadable. The force creased his forehead as another cough shook him, this one gurgling wet and thick in his throat. He didn't raise his hand quickly enough now and Vincent saw; black-red liquid splattered over his lips, trickling from his mouth. His stance wavered, and Masamune trembled as its master struggled to breathe.

Black drops falling from his chin, Sephiroth grit his teeth and shot Vincent a grin. Vincent stood still as another cough dragged Sephiroth's gaze to the ground, body bent inward as he focused all strength on dragging in his next breath.

The ridiculousness dazed Vincent as he watched; that he had felt such fear of so helpless a man. No wonder Sephiroth laughed even when he couldn't breathe.

Sephiroth's strength of will had brought Meteor to this planet, and he held valiantly against the failing of his body, hunching and shuddering, but remaining on his feet. But Vincent saw him lose, a breathless growl of desperation as Masamune clattered to the earth from a shaking hand. Sephiroth collapsed heavily to his knees, still coughing and rasping for breath.

Vincent's heart contracted with shock. Something was _very_ wrong. He watched Sephiroth's black-stained hands shudder as the ex-SOLDIER struggled against utter collapse.

He'd been a turk. He'd killed more in his time than he cared to recall, sleeping, unarmed, unaware. This should be easy. A single bullet, put him down like any rabid dog. This should be…

But it was a failed mission, not a success, that had brought all this to be. It was _his_ fault, after all, that she-

He couldn't shoot him, not like this.

Wordlessly, Vincent lowered Cerberus and approached Sephiroth. Closer, the scent of blood and something else, rotting and decayed, flooded his nose, like he'd walked into a morgue. Steeling himself, Vincent crouched by Sephiroth, looking closer to discern some possible cause.

A twisted gasp and Sephiroth raised his head, eyes flashing this time in a conscious glare. Vincent could now see the haze of pain that pinched his face, how he shivered with each drawn breath as if the act itself were terrible, but Sephiroth bristled at his presence nonetheless, watching every move with slitted eyes. He'd offered a shot, true, but now even the choice was not his. If Vincent wanted to kill him, there wasn't much he could do. Teeth grit, eyes glowing, he glared, the desperate defiance of a wounded animal, cornered and crippled. Vincent could barely see the semi-conscious man buried there. Was he fading so fast?

Meeting that glare, Vincent holstered Cerberus, making sure Sephiroth saw. Green eyes widened, confused, the glow dim again. Sephiroth gasped a breath, and seemed to jerk back from some edge, blinking, staring, pupils dilating as he coughed again. Vincent hesitated, not wanting to startle him. If Sephiroth snapped, it could hurt or kill them both.

Though, just now, he was even more worried it would simply make the ex-SODLIER drop dead.

Sephiroth looked at him fixedly, aggression drained from his eyes by confusion, but mostly by fatigue. A particularly vicious cough ripped itself out of him, Vincent could practically hear his ribs creak, and Sephiroth winced, closing his eyes and abruptly turning away. The meaning was perfectly clear, if a little defiant. _Do what you want, I don't care anymore..._ Blood spattered on the rocks as he curled his spine and hacked.

Vincent accepted the surrender, too preoccupied to respond to the glare. Something of this severity…what even was the matter? Clearly it was something internal, if Sephiroth's continued coughing was any indication…

He'd never seen Sephiroth so weak. The ex-SOLDIER wavered even to sit up now, the oppressive decaying scent practically palpable.

Some part of his mind raged with debate even now. This was the murderer of hundreds. Sephiroth had killed countless innocents, ended so many lives… It was wrong…he deserved the shot he had offered, and nothing more…

Yet he couldn't bear the thought, not like this. Killing him for the salvation of the planet was one thing, but this… This was letting him die. Abandoning him to die.

Vincent had already abandoned too much he shouldn't have. What right did he have now to return death with death?

He had to get him out of here. Sephiroth's appearance would bring widespread panic. There could be no way to explain his foolhardy need to the others; why he did not slaughter this man on sight.

The rocks around them were speckled with red and black blood. Sephiroth shuddered, now braced on hands and knees. He wouldn't be walking. The coughs hadn't slowed, but to Vincent's alarm, the number of breaths Sephiroth took had. He didn't open his eyes now, didn't bristle or fight, only coughed and coughed as if to tear his insides out.

Vincent warily reached out and caught Sephiroth's arm, silently offering or telling that he would take the weight. Sephiroth recoiled sharply from his touch, but the effort buckled him, and quite suddenly he slumped. Vincent had to scramble to catch him. Sephiroth's entire body shook as he heaved, and Vincent could feel his chest rattling, and even through his glove he could feel sickly heat of his skin.

As gently as he could, Vincent ducked under Sephiroth's arm and stood. Sephiroth jerked and gave a cough-thinned hiss, resisting weakly as Vincent's claw brushed his back. Vincent froze and pulled the metal back, unsure whether the reaction was conscious, instinctive or some mix. He couldn't carry even a weakened Sephiroth if he fought.

Trembling, Sephiroth fiercely pushed away from Vincent, as if trying to stand. But the strength taxed reserves he didn't have, making him pant raggedly. Something Vincent couldn't see seemed to finally snap and Sephiroth could breathe or move, not both, his throat choking with black-blood. He fell, hacking. His blood-blackened hand on Vincent's shoulder gouged in a deathgrip as he tried to keep from slipping.

Vincent caught his passenger, trying unsuccessfully to assure him he wasn't falling. Sephiroth, however, either didn't notice or didn't process; his grip didn't loosen even as Vincent lifted him. His eyes were closed now, his breathing ragged, thin, each gasp thick and wet. Something tightened inside Vincent at the blood he could almost hear there. He didn't know how badly hurt Sephiroth was. He didn't know what, if anything, he would be able to do for him once they were safe.

Vincent made sure his grip on Sephiroth was secure, glancing unenthusiastically at the bright noon sun. At the moment, it was the act of even getting him anywhere that worried him. How was he going to sneak Shinra's ex-general through Midgar unnoticed?


	2. Black Blood

With a barely audible breath of relief, Vincent closed the door to his apartment. One task down. Only a combination of shadows, rooftops, and good turk training had allowed him to secret Sephiroth all the way to Kalm without anyone knowing. Vincent had practice moving unseen. He only didn't usually carrying someone else whilst doing so, particularly not the silver haired, arguably most-famed man on the planet. He never wanted to try that again.

Sephiroth still clung tenaciously to his shoulder, meaning he was still alive. Probably even stubbornly still near conscious. But during the entire transfer he had been unnervingly quiet, even when Vincent had to abruptly change direction to avoid discovery. All he did was gasp and cough softly, and that perhaps was more frightening, for before where his coughs had _sounded_ as if they rocked his entire body, now they did so at half the volume. Their violence had weakened, as if some attack or seizure had passed, yet still their ragged, hoarse sound unnerved him.

Vincent let Masamune clatter to the floor, kicking it aside to avoid tripping over the monstrous blade. Then, startling him, his heavy passenger stirred abruptly, hand tightening painfully on his shoulder as Sephiroth dragged a sharp breath past his teeth. Vincent automatically shifted to keep them both upright, trying to calm Sephiroth, yet unsure how. Sephiroth was still conscious enough to know his blade by sound?

Movement was costly. Vincent actually heard something tear ominously, and what breath Sephiroth caught broke from him in a hoarse bark of pain as the ex-general's slumped. Something red glinted on his lips. His hand on Vincent's shoulder shook as black blood slowly trailed down Vincent's cloak.

All thoughts of Masamune and other irrelevant things evaporated. Sephiroth was badly hurt; he needed medical attention, then rest.

Here, too, Turk training served Vincent well. Ironic Shirna was the cause and solution to such ills as this. He could have laughed for despair at the thought, carrying Sephiroth as he was.

Vincent crossed to the bathroom, grabbing spare pillows and towels with his free hand. The first aid kit was already there. Dropping his supplies to one side, Vincent spread out the towel on the tiles. Then, carefully, he crouched and laid down his charge, trying not to pressure anything that might be injured.

Sephiroth did not fight as Vincent lowered him down. However, as soon as his shoulder touched, he twitched, fists clenching as if throttling some invisible foe. With a sharp moan, he flinched, curling tightly in the fetal position, where he lay taking short, gasping breaths.

Startled by the almost plaintive sound, Vincent leaned over his charge, trying calm Sephiroth enough to see if his back was injury, laying a hand on his shoulder. Even at the light contact, Sephiroth recoiled, lashing out with a fist. Vincent's metal arm flew to block, but he pulled short just in time for the black-stained hand to latch, trembling, death-tight, on the front of his cloak.

Sephiroth's skin stretched chalk white he clenched Vincent's shirt so tight. His arm dragged; it seemed he held on for support, unable to move again, sustain the motion. Vincent swallowed. This wasn't an attack.

Sephiroth's hand shook and he dug his fingers deep as another convulsion rattled his chest, choking his throat. Clinging. Shock faded to sorrow as Vincent felt the grip's desperate strength.

Fear accelerated heartbeat, bleeding. Shock. Fear killed. He tapped Sephiroth's hand. _I haven't left._

Sephiroth's breathing hitched. He coughed, sprinkling red and black onto the towel. Then the hand loosened its hold, shifting to catch Vincent's thumb before slipping and falling back to the floor.

Vincent stared at Sephiroth for a full second, dumbfounded by the fact Sephiroth was asking, near _begging_ for help. That last movement, though weak, had been deliberate; Sephiroth's fingers had closed around his. The implications, the thought of how weak he really must be, left Vincent dazed. What could have done this?

Sephiroth suddenly cringed, coughing violent, again choking on the liquid in his mouth, and Vincent snapped to action. Lucrecia's son was dying at his feet, there was no time for thinking about the past!

One step at a time. Identify injuries, tend worst first. The way Sephiroth recoiled from his shoulder worried Vincent, and the volume of liquid splattered on his skin threatened hypovolemic shock. And, particularly disturbing, black blood still flowed freely across his hands. Sephiroth's blood, as far as Vincent knew, had always been red. Why, then, would his arms bleed black? The coat had to come off.

Vincent winced inwardly. That was sure to hurt. He unbuckled the front quickly, surveying the wounds that had been concealed underneath it. Slashes crossed Sephiroth's abdomen and chest, halfway clotted and torn, so blood flowed down the leather straps freely, vividly painting the buckles. _From his fight with Cloud_, Vincent reasoned, grimacing as he tried to survey the extent of the damage. Despite the injuries' severity, it was almost reassuring to see red blood instead of black.

These he could handle. Sephiroth gasped, arching his back, breath hissing in his throat at the stinging pain of cleaning, but the murmur of Cure materia seemed recognizable; he quieted, eyes closed, as the wounds scabbed over, breaths shuddering anew.

Black blood still dribbled between his gritted teeth, making Vincent's stomach turn.

"Sephiroth," Vincent murmured, tapping Sephiroth's fingers, the only place he was certain was uninjured. "Sephiroth, you need to sit up."

For a moment he received no response and Vincent worried he'd lost him. But then the hand against his twitched and Sephiroth's shoulders tensed, his head pressed harder into the ground as one green eye flickered half-open. The closest he could manage to a nod.

Despite attempts at gentleness, Sephiroth shuddered when Vincent's claw touched his shoulder, as if some wound affected his back. With deliberate care, Vincent kept the tips of his claws back, only using the flat parts. He knew from experience the metal points, no matter how carefully used, pained simply by shape and coldness. Even so, he would have to use it eventually; this was not something he could perform with one hand.

To his surprise, Sephiroth actually caught his arm and took some of his own weight, struggling to do as directed, it seemed. This allowed Vincent free use of one hand, which made this easier, though he worried how long Sephiroth could manage the effort.

Sephiroth jerked when Vincent had to brush his neck, grabbing at the collar of his coat. But he remained very still as Vincent worked the sleeve off his arm. It seemed to cling, difficult to remove. Only as the leather finally slid over his skin did Sephiroth move, his fist clenching painfully on Vincent's arm, his eyes closed tight.

Working quickly, Vincent disentangled the jacket from Sephiroth, pulling it off his back. The leather was sodden and sticky and peeled off like a skinning, dripping more black blood down onto the floor. Sephiroth shuddered quietly with each tug or twist. Vincent balked in horror at what was revealed on Sephiroth's back.

Black blood flowed in streams and caked like scabs over the skin, leaving a sick web of half-dried detritus like oil on water's surface. Each breath disturbed the dark, cracked sores branching all over back and arm, even the back of his neck, run-off drying into his hair. They resembled bruises, but darker and oozing a mix of blood and something blacker.

Vincent stared silently at the black liquid coating his hands, running freely onto the floor now without the jacket to absorb it. Geostigma. Beyond questions even of Sephiroth could contract Geostigma; these were worst Geostigma sores he had ever seen. Sephiroth should already be dead, should have died hours ago.

A ragged cough that almost whimpered made it cease to matter. There was no time! Sephiroth was alive right now. The rest: irrelevant. If Sephiroth died because Vincent was too useless to save him, he would never, _never_ forgive himself.

Peeling the jacket from the other arm revealed the same mosaic of oozing black sores all the way to the wrist. Vincent tossed the soiled garment away, trying to think. One step at a time. Get the straps off him. The leather straps crisscrossing Sephiroth's chest were caked and slippery with blood, their knife sheaths held to the flesh by healing wounds scabbing on top of them. Sephiroth grit his teeth and snarled as Vincent soaked the blood away as much as he could and then pulled the straps free of the scabbing sores on his back, adding fresh red to the horrible fresco painted there. Drawing the straps away, Vincent was forced to ignore the vividness of the mingling colors on his hands. He had to stay focused now, no distractions.

Sephiroth flinched again at Vincent's closeness to his throat, but the movement was slower, dimmed. Some mix of fear and pain, but not yet desperate. That was better. To Vincent's surprise, he was able to bring the strap over his shoulder without startling him.

Perhaps, though, he was simply too weak.

Vincent's stomach turned as he finally saw the full extent of Sephiroth's injuries. Slashes from Cloud's sword riddled his lower chest and abdomen, still red and raw though Cure had sealed them. More worrisome, Geostigma sores obscured his entire back in a black-grey lattice twined in blood. That he had been standing when Vincent found him seemed incredible.

Cloud's wounds were closed by Cure, and would have to wait. The Geostigma could not go on bleeding like that; it would surely kill, no one could survive that... Vincent turned on the bath tap and lodged himself in the corner by the shower, Sephiroth's body leaned against him. Trying to be gentle, he began cleaning the red and black blood from Sephiroth's side, laying down dressings and bandaging as he could.

Sephiroth did not startle at the bandaging, as perhaps came as no surprise. However, he jerked and seemed to stifle a moan as Vincent washed the black blood away from his shoulder, struggling feebly against the arm supporting him. Vincent drew back. It must have hurt a great deal to rouse him still. Vincent frowned with worry. "Hush. It must be done. I will be quick, I promise."

To his surprise, Sephiroth reluctantly stilled, as if hearing and processing the words. Perhaps the tone of voice was familiar; Vincent had spoken to troops such long ago, after all. Shying away from that though, he hurried to finish cleaning the wounds. He hadn't spoken to comfort someone like that in a long time, not since injured infantry, lifetimes ago.

Again falling into old instincts, he didn't think when he propped Sephiroth against his chest so he wouldn't choke during the painful procedure of cleaning his back. He was too busy to notice Sephiroth fall against him without fighting, or when, exhausted beyond endurance, the ex-SOLDIER drifted to sleep there while Vincent bandaged his injuries.


	3. Delirium

Vincent leaned against the wall stiffly, looking over at Sephiroth. Everything his skills could tend was clean and bandaged now, and Sephiroth lay asleep on the bed. Despite everything, he still breathed, quieter than before but steadier, as if sleep had calmed the choking in his throat. Vincent found himself listening to each breath, as if to keep count. Or, perhaps, to count down.

Everything he could do was done. Yet Vincent sensed his skills could do little real good. He knew how to tend the wounds Cloud had dealt Sephiroth, seal, clean and bandage them. Given time, they could heal. But with Geostigma he could only wash the blood away. Only one cure existed for Geostigma, but he could not know what Aerith's waters would do to Sephiroth. A man dead and returned three times; contact with the pure Lifestream in that water could do any number of things.

And, even as it was, he didn't think he knew enough to guess. How in could Sephiroth contract Geostigma in the first place, let alone death-like stages of the disease? Attempting to save Denzel and the other stricken children had acquainted Vincent well with the sickness. With Chaos' grudging help he'd learned Geostigma occurred when Lifestream within a body overreacted to Jenova contamination. But Sephiroth had always been Jenova's greatest weapon, and thus, he assumed, held immune to poisoning from her cells. There was no way the creature would allow her own plague to incapacitate her greatest tool...

_What changed? Why leave him helpless now when two days ago she resurrected him?_

Vincent sighed quietly, searching the ceiling for clues. He didn't understand. Sephiroth was sick, and Vincent knew exactly the problem. But he didn't know how; how to help, how it had happened in the first place. The frustration he felt surprised him, burning fierce now the initial shock had faded. It was the sickness of the children all over again.

He didn't remember turning his eyes back to Sephiroth. But it was impossible to ignore him now, and so Vincent gazed silently at him for a long time.

He'd never before seen Sephiroth sleep. He'd always been a fearsome, ever-present danger, especially when Jenova-created clones of him had appeared all over. The conception of him unknowing of his surroundings, of his very situation, was absurd.

Sick. Dying, even. Absurd. Horrible.

Sephiroth lay curled on his side, unmoved from when Vincent left him. His face wasn't neutral even when relaxed, still serious, but a look of peace had settled there that was frankly shocking to see. It seemed Sephiroth, just like everyone else, fled the world a short distance in sleep.

He hadn't meant to, but Vincent could not help seeing, now that he looked. In slumber Sephiroth looked like his mother, his mako-born eyes concealed, his sneers and smirks wiped away. His face was hers, and the way his silver hair splayed everywhere reminded Vincent of her, her ponytail loosened and falling undone after hours of intent focus, a single strand of hair twining free at the nape of her neck.

The bangs, Vincent realized suddenly with sharp a pang. Minerva, Sephiroth had her bangs, the untamable mess of fine strands over his forehead. He'd never noticed it while they had been fighting. How…Sephiroth had never met her, could not have meant to wear his hair like her.

A familiar heavy something settled in his chest. With a deep sigh, Vincent closed his eyes, shut out the realization, even though he knew it wouldn't dislodge his thoughts. This waiting wound him too tightly. Caring for Sephiroth and cleaning had taken a long time, but now he had to let the injured man sleep. He could not know whether Sephiroth would wake at slight sounds or if he were beyond even the sound of a blade. So he must remain as quiet as possible this first night. No unnecessary movements.

There was nothing else for him to do. Leaning into the corner, close enough to hear if Sephiroth worsened, Vincent closed his eyes and dozed, ears peeled for the any strange sound. He must be ready to wake, just incase. But a little rest wouldn't hurt.

* * *

Something drove his eyes open in the dark with jarring urgency. Vincent blinked, puzzled by his sudden alertness. His eyes roved the darkness, processing familiar shapes shown in sharp relief by moonlight from the far window. It was dark, too dark to be near sunrise. So why?

An unfamiliar sound reached his ears. Heavy, ragged breathing. The events of the day before rushed through his memory as Vincent saw strands of silver hair trailing off the bed into the bars of light. Sephiroth. The other man's breathing was the same as before, not exactly even, but steady. So then what had woke Vincent?

As Vincent was glanced about, trying to conjecture, Sephiroth's breathing changed. A moment of silence interjected in the steady pattern, then a painfully soft gasp, hoarse and thin. Movement. Silver shifted.

Vincent hurried to the bedside, treading softly. Sephiroth still lay as before, knees half-drawn up to his chest. The wounds in his stomach prevented him from curling completely for pain, but he'd lowered his head, as if to hunch smaller. His hair spread all over, falling in his face and across the bandages on his body, implying restless movement in his sleep.

As Vincent crouched, he saw Sephiroth wasn't still as before. A crease now marked his brow, as if from holding his eyes closed tightly, and waves of shivers came through him. With the wounds on his back, it must have caused great pain, yet he continued. His fists clung convulsively on the sheets, gouging with nails, and as Vincent settled next to him, Sephiroth flinched against the pillow, a breath hissing harshly through his teeth in a growl.

Vincent swallowed. It looked like...a nightmare. He understood the reaction instinctively, because he, too reacted this way, waking to find himself shredding sheets with his claws.

"Sephiroth," he murmured, hoping to release the sick man from whatever fever-dream tormented him.

Sephiroth shuddered. Vincent started back as green eyes slid half-open, pinning him sightlessly. The irises still flickered unnaturally, but more weakly, and Sephiroth's gaze was overall unfocused, swimming feverishly, the light reflecting eerily off his eyelashes.

Before Vincent could speak again, Sephiroth drew a ragged breath, shaking his head weakly, as if raising his head was a struggle "...no." A whisper, hoarse, barely loud enough to be heard. Another flicker of pain sparked through his unseeing eyes. He tried to curl smaller, defensively, only to be stopped by the stab wounds in his stomach. "You're...wrong…!" A sort of breathless determination twisted his voice, like the pain of movement cracked the words. "I'm not..." He coughed, fighting to breathe past the sickness in his throat.

With a sudden dribble of blood, the mumbling words fell from Sephiroth's lips. "...not...I'm not...yours...experiment...no...I...no!" The last word was louder than the others by a little, but Sephiroth choked on it and it died in the wheezing that overtook his breaths.

Gritting his teeth, Vincent blocked his own memories sharply, distracting himself by focusing on Sephiroth. If he remained agitated, he could seriously hurt himself! Struggling to figure how to restrain him without startling him was enough to keep Vincent from thinking of the lab and the man who Sephiroth had to be speaking to in his dream.

Goddess, how could he be hearing those words on someone else's tongue!?

Vincent hurried to lay his hand against one of Sephiroth's, as he had the night before. "Sephiroth?" It seemed his name, at least, bore some power; if Vincent were lucky, his voice was different enough from that monster's to be a comfort, not a renewed fear.

The hand under his jerked convulsively, nails curved like claws, only to slump still, unable to maintain the tension. Green eyes blinked, opening fully as Sephiroth turned his head to look up at Vincent. The effort to raise his head even a little seemed to drain him, reducing his irises to grey. Vincent stayed still, trying to tell those dulled eyes could actually see or not. It was hard to tell, Sephiroth's eyes still swam with fever and his pupils were like a cat's, pin-pricks even in the dark.

Silence, the only sound Sephiroth's heavy breathing as he stared at Vincent with a dead man's grey eyes. Then, finally, he blinked and his pupils widened slightly, his eyes focused a little.

Sephiroth breathed out quietly, the sound rattling in his throat. "You...you're..." Speech made him tremble, struggling to see and manage raising his head. He trailed off, squinting, a vague look of pain clenching his jaw. "Going...to...kill me," he said finally, a tiny smile showing his bared teeth.

Vincent's eyes widened. Sephiroth recognized him? "No." he said firmly. "I will not kill you."

Those half-focused eyes watched him without shifting or blinking. A flickering of green light swirled in the dim grey, confusion twined with it, slow, quiet. Then silver eyelashes met again; Sephiroth's eyes fell closed and he finally faltered, head falling against the pillow. For a time he lay still, quiet, taking unsteady breaths. Vincent watched uneasily, still completely uncertain whether or not Sephiroth was in a dream or conscious or neither.

A breath, a cough, and then one word, whispered hoarsely in the quiet. "...Why?" Green eyes flickered to life, pinning him as Sephiroth forced his head to turn again. It was impossible to tell if he was conscious or not, if he saw Vincent or someone else or nothing at all. But his eyes found Vincent's and seemed to stare through him, glowing green marred with grey in the dark.

"Why...you never came..." Sephiroth shook his head weakly, staring up at Vincent with a brief, wild, pain-filled expression. Abruptly he turned his head away, eyes closed sharply, voice thinned to a hoarse whisper, faltering, fading. "I...died...did you...care? Did...why? Never...Mother came...she died...but...

she...you never came...not even..."

Vincent shuddered. The words...they weren't meant for him now. Sephiroth couldn't see him anymore. But it sounded like he spoke to...

"Shinra..." Sephiroth murmured, the word at once spat and whimpered, as if it caused him pain. "Shinra…" Vincent strained to catch the words as his voice faded. "You never...why? You left...she died...why...please...Mother...

she...but...I…did I...you...not even...please..." He coughed again, the sound thick and weak. A thin dribble of black-blood slipped out of his mouth. "...please..."

The words struck like a knife, almost as painful as the memories of his own father they dredged up. Vincent fought down the sudden tightness in his chest as he tried to figure out what to do. Sephiroth muttered still under his breath, shaking his head as blood tinged the corners of his mouth. Vincent was struck with sudden desperate pity, even though he knew he couldn't answer this wretched man's plea. Someone remembered, he wasn't in all this pain alone, a nightmare Vincent easily understood.

_You remember. But you never did anything to stop it, and it's too late to expect forgiveness now_. Vincent tried not to hear.

Eyes falling sadly, Vincent slipped his hand into Sephiroth's. It had worked in the past, at least worth a try again. "Sephiroth?" He wasn't sure if he could be heard.

Those swimming green eyes startled him again, glowing fitfully in the dark. With some unknown reserve of strength, Sephiroth looked up at him, shaking slightly, his breathing uneven. Vincent managed not to jump. He tried to meet Sephiroths' eyes steadily, unsure what he was doing. He couldn't leave it like this.

Sephiroth chuckled absurdly into the darkness, and everything Vincent had thought to say vanished.

"Never...no..." Sephiroth laughed quietly, half-choking. "You...won't

...come." A strange, bitter smile, cornered in blood, marked his face, threadbare defiance in his eyes. "Go…away. You...aren't even...real..."

Something like a blow in those words. Vincent didn't know what to say. Some intense sorrow swallowed the bitterness in Sephiroth's flickering eyes. The former general of Shinra winced slowly, face lined deeper and deeper as he wavered. Vincent could see him slip out of those eyes, withdrawn to somewhere deeper, leaving unseeing, unknowing irises, a dull grey with only flickers of green left. Sephiroth's eyes fell closed and he sank down without a sound. Soon, his breathing slowed into ragged sleep.

A long time Vincent sat there by the bed, the sound of Sephiroth's breathing unprocessed in his ears. The words echoed over and over again. _"...You never came...please...did you care? You aren't even real..."_ They hadn't been meant for him. Sephiroth hadn't known, couldn't know Vincent had known her, his _real _mother, could have saved her. Could have saved him.

In his nightmares, Sephiroth accused his absent father, and rightly so. He himself had done much the same, years ago. And yet still all he could think was, _I'm sorry...I'm sorry._ Over and over again, as if it could change anything.

Finally, prying himself from somewhere deep and cold, Vincent stirred, shaken, his thoughts still scattered. Too late for thinking... He'd have to be up at dawn. At the latest. Better rest now, incase...incase he was needed again. He sat back against the wall, back aching, eyes involuntarily finding Sephiroth's face and the inescapable memory: weak, shuddering, pain wracked green eyes demanding an answer of him, demanding to know _why_.

_I'm so sorry..._ Necessary and instinctive and useless.

Vincent closed his eyes with a shudder, trying to wipe his mind clear. If he was lucky, this wouldn't bring him his own nightmares. Sephiroth would need him tomorrow. The sick could not wait for others' rest. He had to rest a little, even with his thoughts so far shattered. He rested his head back, waiting for sleep to take him, as it had before, to that other dark place he'd known for so long, so he could think in the morning.

* * *

Author's Note: I love you guys! Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, and showed support for my story. I love every single one of you!  
A few things:  
I have had a lot of people asking me about who is Sephiroth's father for this story. I am purposely leaving this ambiguous in this chapter, so take it whatever way you want. If Vincent is Seph's father, he doesn't know in this story. If he's not, then he doesn't know anyway. As for later in the story...we'll see.  
Also, tamarahayu, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. I would never ever ever do anything to Sephiroth's awesome hair. I promise and cross my heart. It's just too much fun.  
A special thank you to CNome, too, because it was your review who helped me figure out how to write this chapter! Thank you! You are awesome!  
Again, thank you so much for all who read, and for all your awesome reviews. You really inspired me. I will certainly continue this story, and I will try to complete the next chapter in a more timely manner.  
Thanks so much for your enthusiasm and patience.  
~Alma 3


	4. Broken Feathers

Nothing could change the fact Vincent rose with the sun. 30 years in the darkness of a coffin in that forgotten basement had sensitized his eyes, so the first ray of light slipping through the window always woke him. No matter if he wanted to stay oblivious just a little longer.

Today waking proved more difficult than usual, as if something lurked beyond that light he didn't wish to remember. Vincent blinked the brightness from his eyes, squinting. Some sleep-dulled urgency churned at the back of his mind, insisting he rise immediately, but he couldn't remember why.

He'd once thought thirty years of sleep would make it easier. But he'd long since lost that hope. Every single day retreating from the place of rest was a conscious effort.

Vincent blinked blearily, realizing he was sitting up, leaning against the wall. That explained the light in his face, and the ache in his back. Why had he chosen so uncomfortable position to sleep?

Breathing. Not his.

Sephiroth's.

Vincent's eyes flew open, making him wince as the light left him briefly blinded. Day brought silver and intrusive red and black into sharp contrast as he began to see again.

Vincent's rose quietly, sore joints protesting the awkward sleeping position. He remembered now. The day before, then the nightmare last night.

Unpleasant reflections were pushed aside for later. First, he had a patient to care for. An insidious sinking feeling predicted there was little he could do. Vincent walked silently to his charge, hoping the situation had stayed stable overnight.

Sephiroth lay as he had left him in the night, wounds preventing him from rolling much. His breathing seemed eased compared to the night before, with less choking, yet still it raced far to fast and shallow. His eyes were closed, no trace of expression on his face now even as Vincent stood so close. Vincent felt a heavy weight settle on his shoulders. Well and truly dead to the world.

The thought chilled him, and he thrust it aside. Sephiroth lived right now, each rattling breath proved it. Only that mattered, and doing anything he could to drag that out a little longer.

Something caught his eye as he scrutinized Sephiroth for change in condition. Long strands of hair clung to Sephiroth's neck and bare arms, sweat gleaming on his skin.

Alarmed, Vincent felt Sephiroth's forehead, moving carefully so as not to wake him. The skin was hot, heat pulsing against his fingers with each shallow breath.

Fever. Not severe yet, but he had little doubt it could easily worsen. And likely would. Sephiroth lacked the strength to fight through everything dragging him so close to death. Geostigma monopolized the immune and reparatory systems in victims, preventing injuries and other crises from healing.

Denzel had come down with fever, and Vincent remembered Tifa's distraught fear they would lose him. Everyone knew those who died succumbed to a fever and never came out of it again, coughing their insides out in black mucous before the end. It had been a miracle Denzel had pulled through, little short of Aerith's magic.

Miracles were in short supply now. The unconscious man on his bed twitched slightly in his sleep. Sephiroth's eyes were closed in senseless oblivion. He no longer reacted to Vincent's presence at all, unaware an enemy stood close enough to observe a hair-thin scar beside his eye.

It was so _wrong_ to see him like this, wrong for him to be so weak. Vincent had seen enough of death to recognize it approach a man, much as he'd wish to deny it. Sephiroth was dying, slipping into that mid-state between living and dead, unaware of even his own ebbing life.

But, no, that wasn't right. Vincent couldn't believe that after seeing Sephiroth survive so much. Since Sephiroth's birth everything had a protracted struggle for survival. Surely, even as his body fell, Sephiroth fought there somewhere. Struggling with all the strength he had, whatever was left. That was who he had been made to be. How else could he even have survived this long?

The stab of guilt at that thought had to be ignored, there wasn't time for selfish loathing.

A few faint red marks tinted the bandages on Sephiroth's abdomen, meaning some of the wounds had reopened in the night. He would have to Cure them again. There was little hope Geostigma sores' weeping had slowed, either, with nothing he could do to stop it.

No matter how strong willed, how could any man survive so much? Eventually a body must fail and drag the soul with it. He had seen it too many times before, pitiful deaths of those who clawed tooth and nail to survive. Too tired. Lost too much blood. Better to give up.

Vincent clenched his fist violently, foregoing the satisfaction of hearing his metal claw shriek incase it startled Sephiroth. It was inexcusable that Lucrecia's son suffered like this while he was, for once, beside him! He should be able to do something about it!

_You never did anything before. You failed then, as you will fail now._

Easier to blame that insidious thought on his demons and shove it away.

A low groan from the still form on the bed monopolized his attention. Sephiroth's face contorted in a grimace, closed eyes roving restlessly. Renewed shivers left his hands trembling, shaking his shoulders violently.

He was fighting the fever, too, along with everything else.

Vincent reached out and gently touched the back of his clawed hand to Sephiroth's forehead. The cool metal seemed to ease him somewhat. The shivers slowed, and his face relaxed slightly.

He still responded to touch. He wasn't so far gone yet.

Vincent scowled. He wasn't going to allow it to happen! He couldn't fight the Geostigma. He didn't know how. But had he not been a Turk, highly trained in combat medicine? He could handle the red-blood wounds, battle against the fever, at the very least give Sephiroth some strength back to fight. He knew how to do that, had done so many times. Time was wasting…

Something told him it was going to be a long day.

Gathering his ammunition against the wounds let him ignore thoughts that wouldn't leave him. He couldn't break the fever. He could do his best to help, to give Sephiroth a fool's chance against the disease, and that at best, but in the end it fell to the ex-SOLDIER to survive. Vincent didn't know if he would, if he had the will left in him after so much struggle. How much pain did he endure even now?

Because he'd seen it before. Easier to give up. Easier to die. A fight you couldn't win, why fight?

He couldn't think of that, dared not remember instances from before. Focus. Do what you can. And hope Sephiroth's strength would be enough. After all, if anyone in the world could survive, it must be this man.

The fever seemed higher than just minutes before, though that may have been his overactive imagination. Vincent frowned at the tense expression that had returned to Sephiroth's face.

He needed to change the bandages on Sephiroth's abdomen, reseal the wounds. But first Vincent gently wiped the sweat off Sephiroth's face as well as he could. A hot breath brushed the palm of his hand as he ran the cloth over closed eyes. Sephiroth didn't notice.

He'd have to stay nearby and wait, he knew, after the bandaging was done. There was nothing else to do. Just like with Denzel, waiting, wiping away the sweat and watching. It was maddening to sit as helpless spectator such a struggle, knowing in the end it depended on the weakening fighter to survive or die. Regardless of anything the watcher could do, nothing would change it. Gods he didn't know how Tifa had managed.

But he had to. He had to try. Too many times he hadn't, he'd slept while Sephiroth suffered.

Vague memories of his own time under that man's "care" made Vincent shudder sharply, nausea somewhere in his stomach. Years under Hojo's knife. Shiva, Sephiroth must have suffered. The madman would have no pity on a child.

_It's your fault. Everything he's suffered is your fault. You know that._

Vincent breathed out slowly, crushing the thought away. Right now it was no help, to Sephiroth, to him. He had to focus on what he could do to keep him alive. Goddess willing, Sephiroth's strength would hold and his condition would improve.

* * *

It didn't. Sephiroth barely reacted when Vincent rebandaged the wounds in his chest, locked somewhere beyond simple pain. Hour by hour his temperature rose, his sleep punctuated by restless fever-dreams that sent him muttering incoherently. But, most disturbingly, even as his closed eyes roved and he cried out in wordless sounds, his movements weakened. He didn't have the strength left.

Bit by bit, Vincent heard Sephiroth's breathing grow ragged. He was beginning to gasp again. His throat had seemed miraculously clear earlier; no longer, Vincent could practically hear the sickness encroach again, making it difficult to breathe.

Sephiroth's body was being run ragged. No man, even him, could endure this forever.

Vincent managed to coax a little water into him, but most of it trickled unswallowed from the corner of Sephiroth's mouth, tinted a bracken-black, staining his skin. Afterwards, Sephiroth swallowed nothing, choking out blackish liquid whenever Vincent tried, as if it were tainting his throat. Sephiroth lay motionless for long minutes after regaining his breath, panting, sweat blending the edges of the black marks on his skin.

Long hours had passed since Sephiroth ceased to register Vincent's touch. Now he only clenched his fists and growled hoarsely as if to fight feverish hallucinations Vincent couldn't understand. He was senseless of Vincent crouching beside the bed, wiping black blood and sweat from his face.

Words were beyond him now, but Sephiroth's skin screamed as if fire burned in his veins. His cheeks flushed with the heat, while his fingers had grown cold, the skin near-white.

By afternoon the first trail of black blood slipped from sodden bandages and trailed sluggishly along Sephiroth's hand. The sores had not stopped seeping through. Vincent wiped it away, but the dark smudge looked painfully unnatural against sickness paled skin. He hurried to change the dressings, letting the fouled cloth splatter in the bathtub until he could burn away it. The decayed smell was overwhelming.

By the time the shaking started, sweat drenched Sephiroth's skin. The combination of hypothermia and fever could kill in hours if left alone. Vincent spread blankets around his charge to keep him warm. Yet some places he dared not cover for fear of putting weight on wounds. The trembling began slowly; a shudder in Sephiroth's hands, but by the time he looked again they were still. But gradually the shakes increased in strength, coming with building frequency. Soon, Sephiroth shivered as if frozen even as his skin burned. His muscles twitched in waves, almost as in convulsions rather than from cold.

It worried Vincent the strongest muscle spasms seemed centered in Sephiroth's shoulders. There was something unnatural in the violence these attacks brought. Twice Sephiroth cried out, muscles clenched so tightly Vincent could feel the tension in his hands. Left with few options, Vincent had to press his hand into Sephiroth's jerking shoulder, trying to loosen the excruciating tension there, knowing he caused terrible pain over the Geostigma sores. Closing his ears to Sephiroth's fractured yowl, struggling to pull away. Long moments of his fingers in shuddering flesh before the muscles wrenched free, and then Sephiroth lay panting raggedly, pain etched deep into his face.

The second time, Vincent sat beside the bed, disturbed, unable to shake the feeling. It had almost felt like...something twitching, jerking beneath the skin. Not muscle, not bone, something that shouldn't be there.

_But there can't be...Sephiroth is human. I know that, even if he never..._ Vincent's eyes flickered unwillingly to the metallic claw entombing his left hand, dulling his sense of touch. A constant, cold reminder of what he too had once been. He swallowed, looking to Lucrecia's unconscious son.

Sephiroth's eyes were closed, but Vincent could picture perfectly their unnatural mako-light, pupils slit like a creature's. Not his mother's at all, yet painfully the same in other ways, in the touch of the same man who'd torn him from Lucrecia's arms at birth, who had _done_ this to a child, left him with a monster's eyes.

The claw clenched into a tight fist, metal hissing on metal. _Hojo, what did you_ do_ to him?_ _If you...I'll..._

Low choking stopped him, his charge calling. Sephiroth groaned in his sleep, shuddering again. Vincent hurried to bathe his brow, trying to cool his temperature, trying to keep from thinking.

Twice Sephiroth had transformed during their war, taking a monster's body to match his eyes. It had acutely pained Vincent, though he had mentioned it to no one. That was Lucrecia's son flying high above them, more wing than man.

More monster than human. As Vincent himself.

But when Cloud fought him days ago Sephiroth appeared human again, as far as Cloud had indicated. Despite everything Vincent had taken small comfort in that, though guilty of taking it at the expense of his friends' safety. Lucrecia's son at least hadn't been forced into a monster's shape permanently. That would've been too much for Vincent, even if Cloud had simply struck him down again.

Now he wasn't so sure, and cold suspicion settled uncomfortably in his chest. But much as he needed to know, he didn't investigate further. Sephiroth's back was sensitive to the air alone, and to cause him more pain was cruel.

By evening, exhaustion weighed Vincent down, his left hand near too heavy to lift. Small victories; Sephiroth's fever had stopped fluctuating, though still present. No trembling fit for about an hour, and Sephiroth lay quiet. Vincent just dared hope he may actually sleep in peace. At least then Vincent could breathe for a bit. Unlikely, yet perhaps…

Either way he willingly gave up sleep. Too dangerous to risk it. If Sephiroth suffered another episode in the night he could choke to death.

The stars blinked bright outside when Vincent finally settled beside the bed to wait. Every blanket he had was nestled around Sephiroth, to keep him warm without crushing him with heavy quilts. A water pitcher set out the bedside table with several cloths, ready if needed. Judging by today, they would be.

Sephiroth lay in the nest Vincent had built around him, skin still slick with sweat. He panted a steady tempo, breaths painfully shallow, but thankfully constant. Splotches of black liquid crusted on his bangs. Vincent hadn't had time to clean them.

A brief wince crossed Sephiroth's face. Vincent grimaced reflexively. How much longer could he keep this up?

He sat there watching Sephiroth breathe, so when he was needed he would be ready.

He didn't remember dozing. He hadn't meant to. But stress and roiling emotions dragged him down, and inevitably he dreamed of her.

Lucrecia cried, begging to hold her son just once, while an infant wailed in cold and fear. He tried to call out to her, but couldn't make a sound.

Abruptly, terrifyingly, claws crashed in around him and a roar shattered the nightmares, dragging him from the mists, an image forced before his eyes in vivid heat-bright colors. Vincent shot bolt upright at the horrible, guttural snarl echoing all through the room. _What!? _He scrambled for his gun even though he could see nothing to aim at.

_ENEMY!_ The word blasted through his mind with enough force to flatten thought, and it was only then he realized Chaos had dragged him awake, and the deafening roars were only in his mind.

The demon screeched and roiled, clawing. He had to suppress Chaos _now, _or the entire room would be torn to pieces! Holding the flailing demon back enough to think demanded great effort of will. _Chaos, what...?_ he managed, before the demon roared again.

_Enemy!_ the creature howled, thrashing against Vincent's hold on him. _Murderer! Monster! Poison! Cursed Enchantress!_ He struggled fiercely, making the tips of Vincent's clawed fingers twitch and curl uncontrollably.

Vincent grit his teeth and pushed back sharply. Chaos roared as he was forced down. _Enemy! Coming, fight!_ _She is here, she is here with us in this room! _Yellow eyes burned accusingly in Vincent's mind. _Fool!_

_I'm not letting you out!_ Vincent grit in response, firmly burying the demon into the recesses of his mind. Chaos snarled once more in defiance before being submerged. _Coming...coming...enemy…!_ The growling litany faded.

Vincent breathed unsteadily, staring out into the dark, forcing his hands to uncurl, the racing of his heart to slow. Chaos only reacted so strongly to presences he utterly despised. Vincent had only encountered two before. What could possibly have riled him?

Chaos' echo, still reverberating in his ears like a far off roar. _monster...calamity...Jenova._

A ragged, hoarse cry. Heavy cloth striking the floor.

Inexplicable fear forced him to his feet. _Sephiroth!_

What he saw froze him in his tracks.

Sephiroth thrashed with all his feeble strength, fighting the blankets around him, jerking as if in a seizure. His nails tore uncontrollably at whatever they could catch, as if struggling to cling to something but unable to hold on for his shaking. Black Geostigma runoff covered each finger in diseased rivulets, staining skin, cloth, whatever it touched. The muscles in his shoulders buckled, rigid and shaking violently, as to tear themselves apart.

If Sephiroth didn't stop, he'd tear the wounds open again-!

Low, choked gasps tore from Sephiroth's throat as he jerked into a ball, limbs shaking. He coughed desperately, black blood in his mouth, splattering his hair and face. Breaths stopped completely as he convulsed again, half-rolled over by the brutal force. His back touched the bed, dragging forth a low cry as he recoiled, and Vincent could see the cruel waves of shivers that wracked his shoulders. Black blood escaped his mouth with each breath.

Vincent rushed forward. He'd heard of the like before; Denzel suffered fits like this, but Sephiroth had already been bleeding black so long it hadn't even occurred to him- And this wasn't simple unconsciousness like Denzel, dangerous enough in itself, these convulsions would _kill_ any normal man with injuries like this!

Metal shrieked, his clawed hand in a tight fist. No!

_What the hell do you expect to do? _Not Chaos, much as he wished it was. No time. "Sephiroth!"

No response. Lost in whimpers torn free each time another spasm took him, twisted with blood from his throat. And Vincent knew the futility of calling him. Who was he be answered? He had _never been there_. Sephiroth didn't know him. But he kept saying it, as if the power of his name could hold Sephiroth here a little longer. As if maybe he would sense that for _once_ Vincent was here, that he hadn't failed him.

But he had. He didn't know what to do, and if he did nothing-!

Sephiroth clutched desperately at the bed, curling tighter with a sharp moan, head bent almost to his knees. Vincent hesitated, torn. The wounds in Sephiroth's abdomen must already be torn open, he had to stop moving. But to hold him down, to fight him and force him still…Vincent didn't know if he could bring himself to do that. The pain and fear that would cause… But he had to do _something_.

Chaos' shrieks echoed still, making burning urgency worse.

Suddenly Sephiroth bucked, back arched, fingers dug into the bed like claws, his entire body jerking violently. Vincent's heart contracted in horror, driving him forward. He could see Sephiroth struggling to make a sound, to scream. He _couldn't_ cry out, throat closed, locked as every muscle in his body seemed to curl in on itself. His back rippled unnaturally, Vincent could see it now, almost as if something were fighting to move-!

A loud crack of tendons, a strangled cry of pain, and something black shot across Vincent's line of sight. Intense, slamming pain on his forehead, a broadsword's force rained down on a single point of bone. Everything abruptly dark and swimming in pain.

The floor slamming against his back, the breath gasping out of his lungs, the cruel shift in gravity dragged him back alert, head aching. For a moment he lay disoriented. All he could see was black.

The black was shaking, and he could hear low, hollow gasps.

Something dripped down to splatter on his cheek, impact reflexively driving his eye shut. Vincent blinked as black liquid trailed thickly towards his ear. Only then he began to process what he saw.

Feathers. A sheet of black feathers blackened his vision, trembling rhythmically, like a heartbeat. Yet unlike birds' wings he knew, these feathers were rumpled and sticking out in every direction, some barely clinging to the flesh they were meant to cover. Broken, split edges ragged from neglect, some feathers halfway and then shorn, naked stems. Red liquid mingled with dripping black across the pitiful form.

The flesh shuddered, and Vincent realized it arched over him, a feathered joint shaking against the floor by his head. He could see through raggedy feathers to the skin beneath, covered in dark bruising and hair-line cracks oozing thick black liquid. Skin color was impossible to tell so soaked were the feathers with red and black blood.

Vincent stared—a wing, his eyes insisted, it had to be a wing. But how...what wing?

Another whimper, a shudder through the form above him dislodged a black feather, which fell slowly onto Vincent's cheek. He blinked and flinched away from its bloody scent of decay. The movement left fine black dust on his face, baffling him. Where had...?

The feather broke apart as he pulled away, his slight movement shattering it to dust.

_Goddess, what-?_ Vincent scrambled from beneath the feathers as if struck. The wing must be, much as he hated the horrible thought-

Sephiroth lay still now, too exhausted to move. He gasped shallowly, his mouth still black and bloody, eyes closed tight. Bandages hung around him in shreds, torn from his body by the wing's attempts to unfurl. Geostigma now trailed further, dark bruises over his shoulders towards his collarbone that promised fresh black ooze if touched. The wounds in his abdomen bled crimson anew, staining the bedsheets. Mottled sores had even appeared along the side of his neck, reaching his jaw.

Yet most horrifying was the raggedly feathered limb that sprang from Sephiroth's exposed shoulders.

It was clearly a wing. The limb arced from Sephiroth's back off the bed's edge, meeting the floor at a sharp angle and laying flat, reaching near the footboard. Bony, bloody knuckles marked the joints, where the feathers had fallen away. Vincent had first seen near the elbow joint, after the wing's release had slammed into his head.

But wretched as the wing seemed there, the joint between the wing and Sephiroth's back was worse. Feathers drooped, plastered to the skin by half-clear scabs, failing in their mangled scarcity to conceal the mottled sores weeping black blood. Where the muscles of shoulder and wing met and tangled, the black mixed with vivid red, as if in its struggle to extend the wing had torn fresh wounds. Bruises and blood darkened the flesh even beneath the appalling second skin of dried Geostigma runoff.

Sephiroth gasped pitifully as the wing jerked, twitching all along its length, grinding feathers and skin against the floor. A feeble attempt to move, failed before it started. Any strength he'd once had was spent, and the wing only shuddered and jerked hopelessly, blood-caked feathers dislodged and snapped by the movement.

Something turned in Vincent's throat at the horrid sight, nausea at the scent of blood and disease that soaked the broken, pitiful form. And nausea too at this _thing_ twitching and jerking off Sephiroth's back. Hojo had done this! How could he have let Hojo do this!?

But overwhelming anything else was painful, stifling pity. Sephiroth lay battered, struggling to breathe, the weight of the wing pinning him down. Dying. Twisted, wings built into his body, then cast aside, like some broken animal left to die. He couldn't bear to see him like this!

This was beyond any power he possessed, though. The wing almost seemed to be tearing itself apart. The blood and Geostigma were so thick. At this rate, who knew how long until Sephiroth broke...

_No! _He knew what he must do, the only thing that could possibly save Sephiroth. But it made no sense; he didn't know _what_ he was asking, if saving him was even possible now. Sephiroth had _killed_ her. And he didn't know if it was even possible anymore for him to live.

Could she save someone who served..._her?_

Vincent winced. He had to try. There was no alternative now. If Sephiroth died, he...he knew he wouldn't...

The dim roar in his mind sounded much like Chaos, but may not have been. It seemed touched by anguish rather than rage.

He didn't know what he would do if he had to watch Lucrecia's son die.

Rushing to bandage Sephiroth's wounds enough to carry him, Vincent found his hands shaking, and he didn't have the strength to stop them. Prayers came to him without knowing to what deity he directed them. Better not to. He fell to the only truth a monster could be sure of, and begged her forgiveness for the betrayal and impossibility of what he must ask.

_Aerith, please...!_

* * *

**A/N:** I am back! 1 college admissions season later and I have finally come back from the dead! Thank you all for keeping supporting this story, and know that I never gave up on coming back. I won't leave this alone, I promise! This has been in the works for an obnoxiously long time, and I apologize. But, here you are. Hope you enjoyed, and hopefully I'll get chapter 5 out in less time.

I love you all! Your support inspires me so much! 3 ~Alma


	5. Dreams of Flowers

Vincent's feet knew the path, fortunate when all his attention was focused on the shallowly breathing body he carried. He wrapped Sephiroth in his cloak, pinning the wing heavily against the edge to keep it off the ground. It must have been excruciating, cloth dragging against the diseased flesh, but Sephiroth didn't flinch, didn't seem to feel it.

The doors were only half-standing, swinging back easily when he shouldered them open. Relieved, Vincent ducked into shadows, letting cracked walls shield him from the outside world. Even here, he wanted to keep their presence unknown.

As he stepped forward, a concentrated shudder ran through Sephiroth's body, his breath rattling desperately. Vincent could feel the chill in the other man's skin.

Sephiroth was dying.

Vincent looked to water that now covered most of the church floor. It seemed the only hope he had, but all he knew was it banished Jenova cells. Only the Lifestream and Hojo knew how many of those Sephiroth carried.

Vincent lowered Sephiroth onto the small patch of flowers growing at the edge of the pool, twining in the shattered floorboards. He drew back his soiled cloak. Touching the wing's skin made something turn in his throat; the flesh felt as if it were barely clinging to frayed muscle.

Sephiroth whimpered as his back and wing touched the wooden boards. Black blood fell onto Aerith's flowers, which seemed to pale under the foul liquid.

Vincent looked across the water. "Aerith, please…I need your help."

He voice echoed off the water, and his heart sank. Sephiroth flinched, and Vincent had to catch his head so he wouldn't choke. His fingerprints smudged the dark blood his cheek.

Panic reared its head in Vincent's heart, but he thrust it away sharply. He wondered if he should say something else, what else he could possibly say… Or if he should have left her in peace, instead of bringing her killer to bleed on her flowers.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the church was gone. Vincent found himself kneeling on firm, warm earth, surrounded by pale flowers. All around the world was a soft white.

Gentle hands held his, both the clawed and not. He looked up, found his tongue. "Aerith…!"

Aerith beamed, green eyes, pink dress, everything just as he remembered her, her hands squeezing tight on his. He found himself smiling.

But Sephiroth was gone and Vincent stiffened. Vincent looked at her urgently. "Aerith, where is he?"

Her smile thinned. Concern overrode his guilt.

Without looking, Aerith gestured with a tilt of her head.

Vincent saw him, several feet away, lying in a crumpled heap. The ex-SOLDIER lay frightfully still, eyes closed. Aerith's flowers seemed to shrivel where they touched him, dead blossoms on his hands. He did not appear to be breathing.

Vincent stood, and Aerith released his hands as he rushed to his charge.

Sephiroth's skin was so cold, so unnaturally cold the shock made something more than simple skin recoil in Vincent. He slumped into Vincent's arms as he lifted him from the ground.

"He's at the threshold of death." Aerith spoke softly as she watched. "Neither alive nor dead. He won't wake here. By rights he should already be dead."

Vincent closed his eyes. Aerith's presence at his side warmed him, even as the dying man left his hands numb, as if any warmth that seeped from Vincent was lost somewhere and Vincent was caught in between. He looked up at Aerith sorrowfully.

He knew she'd heard him, but he said it again, all the same. "Aerith…please. I need your help. I don't know what's wrong."

Aerith looked a long while, and for the first time in his life Vincent was afraid of her. He had laid in her hands her own murderer. Could he blame her for the way she looked at Sephiroth now?

"He died," she murmured, curling her hands into fists. "When Cloud killed him…Sephiroth really died. Or, he should have." She glanced at Vincent, with something like a wince on her face. "But…he holds himself here by force of will. And so…he suffers."

Sephiroth breathed slowly.

This was worse, if that were possible, than he'd thought. The Lifestream was fighting Jenova with its full power within Sephiroth's body, without any regard for maintaining life.

Aerith bit her lip as Vincent looked up at her. "You saw him. This has to stop," he said finally. "Aerith…please."

If Sephiroth could keep himself alive for three days through sheer willpower, how long would it take before he finally died?

Aerith was still for a moment, indecisive. "I…" But then she offered Vincent a brave, grim smile. "We can try."

"Thank you," Vincent replied.

Aerith looked down at her feet. "Don't thank me yet," she said, curling her lower lip between her teeth. She almost glanced at Sephiroth, before abruptly looking away. "We have to go deeper."

Vincent shrugged. Lifting Sephiroth, he followed Aerith as she turned. Aerith walked by his side as they approached the white-blurred horizon, and Vincent watched her, because it was better than watching Sephiroth's deathly stillness. Despite himself, he was counting each slow breath.

As they walked, a strangely arched tree loomed suddenly in front of them, a gate or a doorway. As they drew closer, Vincent could see small purple fruits hanging on thin boughs around the arching trunk.

Beside it stood a man, black haired, broad shouldered, with a sword-harness and mako-blue eyes. He was tall and imposing even leaned against the tree, his feet set firmly amid the flowers. He wore as a SOLDIER first. Aerith blinked, taken aback, and hesitated. "Mr. Hewley…?"

The man inclined his head politely. "Miss Gainsborough." He glanced over his shoulder, through the tree arch. "I've come to stand witness."

Then Vincent could see beyond, through the arched, white-barked gate, where a figure stood in a field of flowers. The woman, tall and armored in gold, made the rest of this place seem dreamlike and faded. The flowers beneath her feet arched towards her, suffused with glowing green. As soon as he saw her, Vincent felt something within him grow still in awe.

Aerith squeezed Vincent's shoulder and walked beneath the tree-a towards the woman, entering her glow. The being, a goddess, Vincent's mind insisted, turned slowly to regard Aerith and the hair on the back of Vincent's neck stood up.

'Hewley' rose from his place, calling Vincent's attention by a glance at Sephiroth. He hesitated, jaw clenching, as he observed the stillness of the man Vincent carried.

Vincent straightened, and then the stranger met his gaze. "You're dressed as a SOLDIER," Vincent said.

The man nodded, the eocho of a wince in the movement. "I was. My name is Angeal Hewley. " He looked at Sephiroth again, and he swallowed. "Sephiroth and I…were friends…once, long ago."

It did not end well, that "long ago," Vincent saw. When he reached out a hesitant hand, Vincent did not stop him.

With a gentleness incongruous with his large hands, Angeal brushed Sephiroth's cheek with the back of his fingers and Vincent found he wished to believe this story of the past. That Sephiroth once had friends had never before crossed his mind.

He assumed Hewley was dead, then, but Vincent did not want to ask.

Suddenly a crack of sound echoed in Vincent's ears. For a moment, he saw Sephiroth's flesh again, not spirit and heard a hollow whimper, the desperate gasp of a dying man. Black blood stained Angeal's hand.

Then he saw spirit only again, still and silent as the dead. Angeal frowned, and Vincent realized what he'd just seen, just heard, was perceived by the other man as well.

Sephiroth shivered.

Vincent glaced from one man to the other in astonishment. He'd moved! Did he…had that been because of Angeal?

Angeal grit his teeth, cupping Sephiroth's face in his hands and bending down to whisper something in his ear. Vincent wondered if Sephiroth could hear him.

But Sephiroth gave no further response. Seeing him like this, unmarked and yet dying all the same was worse than watching him bleed. Here beyond the reach of Jenova who doomed and sustained him, he was lifeless, senseless, too weary to even open his eyes.

"I will save you." Angeal vowed, stepping back to glance past the tree to where Aerith stood by the fearsome woman. No one seemed to be speaking, yet the intensity of their exchange, convinced Vincent much was being said in the silence.

Angeal turned without a word of explanation and walked under the arch as well. Angeal towered over Aerith as he approached, yet still the armored goddess seemed to dwarf him as he stood before her.

The woman turned her terrible eyes slowly to Angeal.

Vincent found this second silent exchange frustrating, feeling Sephiroth's dimming breaths. So he followed through the arch, bearing his dying charge. He would speak, if no one else would.

Aerith looked at him as he drew close, and Vincent saw the same uncertainty on her face as before. She seemed to debate coming to his side, but her hands clenched in the folds of her pink dress, and he realized suddenly she was afraid to get too close to Sephiroth, even harmless and helpless as he now was.

He couldn't really blame her.

Angeal had no such anxiety. He did not even look at Vincent, did not break gaze with the goddess, but he stepped to Vincent's side, tall and rooted to the ground, a clear show of support.

The woman watched him with serene, distant eyes, before turning her gaze to Vincent.

Vincent's spine went rigid, the hair on the back of his neck prickling and his grip on Sephiroth tightened. No threat drew this reaction from him, but rather an ancient might behind her calm face, that thrummed in every fiber of his being.

Aerith would not be his most difficult task.

Vincent drew a breath, his voice echoing in the quiet. "Please."

She looked at him for a long time. Then, Minerva lowered her eyes to Sephiroth, who shuddered.

"Why…do you want her to?" Aerith spoke in curiosity, not challenge.

Vincent bristled all the same. He'd been dreading that question since failing to put a bullet in Sephiroth's skull.

Vincent looked down at the dying man - the dead man, by now, probably - in his arms. Sephiroth's face was lined in a grimace. Then he1 gripped him, as if to shield him from the goddess' dispassionate eyes. "Because he doesn't deserve this. This is cruel."

Vincent met her gaze. He could not lie in this place but he couldn't force himself to say the rest, that he needed to try for her son's life.

The Goddess met his eyes and his heartbeat stilled, and Vincent felt certain she knew all he held back.

"His death serves nothing." he said. "And…I would see it end."

The Goddess' life brushed against Vincent with a strange warmth, combating the growing coldness in Sephiroth.

Angeal spoke. "Nothing will change if he dies again. Please, let him live."

Aerith's attention tingled on Vincent's skin. "But…is it worth the risk…to grant him life again, I mean?"

He could not forgive Sephiroth nor ask Aerith to forgive him. He could not forgive himself, or Hojo, for creating this wretched man, for letting him end up like this.

"If no one tries, it can never be worth the risk," he murmured at last, and looked up at Aerith.

Guilt did him no good, she'd told him once, holding his brass-clawed hand to prove she wasn't afraid. He was here now. That was most important. Aerith lowered her eyes to Sephiroth, the man who'd taken her life, who lay helpless in Vincent's arms. Vincent could see her bite her lip, take a deep breath.

He frowned. "If it comes to it, I will kill him myself."

The goddess turned to Aerith. Aerith bowed her head. "I trust Vincent." Vincent inclined his head. She trusted him more than he trusted himself.

Minerva smiled and turned her eyes to Angeal. Something of great weight was conveyed between goddess and man.

Angeal smiled, eyes flashing with resolve. "It can be done. I have faith in him."

The Goddess' face was serene she turned now to Vincent. She smiled, and gave a slow nod.

The Lifestream broke through the white, swallowing Vincent's perception. The clearing and the figures in it disappeared. Vincent felt a brief sensation of a strong hand squeezing his shoulder and Angeal's voice said, "Thank you," in his ear, but he could not see the man, only feel when he let go.

Time passed and the rushing slowed, then stilled back into a world of white. Vincent tried to regain his bearings, disoriented by endless whiteness around him. There was a breathlessness in his chest, as if this was a pause to recover before the remainder of the journey.

Someone was standing at his back, their hand twined gently with his claw. Vincent closed his eyes. "Aerith…"

She laughed. "I'm not angry, you know."

"Aerith…" But words failed him again. "Thank you."

She shrugged. "I think… I'm just worried for you."

He squeezed her hand. "I'll do what I have to. No one will get hurt," he promised. If he must, he would pull the trigger.

He just didn't how he'd admit to Lucrecia he'd shot her son.

Aerith's voice was gentle when she spoke. "Angeal…seems certain you'll be able to do something no one else could. He…he cares about Sephiroth a lot."

"He hasn't had many people…who cared about him, I think," Vincent replied.

Aerith nodded. "Then maybe this is what was meant to happen."

"Then it will be worth it," he promised grimly.

She squeezed his hand. "I hope it is."

Her fingers unthreaded from his, and he was alone. Vincent waited. It stood to reason this could take time.

Sephiroth appeared in front of him at last, still and silent as before, eyes closed. He hovered in the air, held by some invisible force. Vincent reached out as Sephiroth began to drift downward.

Then, as abruptly as before, the white faded.

Vincent blinked, startled by sudden blinding light reflected off water? He stood waist deep in water in the church. Flower petals floated around Sephiroth as he lay half submerged in his arms, hair drifting around them like silver roots.

Glowing green trails of light danced on the water's surface, as if scattered from the sunlight, and they came from the water into Sephiroth's body. The geostigma sores glowed, their blackness overtaken by piercing green. The wing, splayed out into the water, shed its feathers, surrounded by such light Vincent couldn't look at it.

The planet returned the life it had rightfully taken.

When the lights faded, Vincent lifted Sephiroth from the water, everything else momentarily forgotten. Cold and wet and heavy the ex-soldier slumped in his arms, still as the dead, soaking wet, water streaming from him freely, sloughing off black and red stains. Vincent stood there in the middle of Aerith's church, surrounded by flower petals on the water, waiting, his heart pounding.

A deep, steady breath broke the silence, and Sephiroth shifting as he exhaled. And then took another. And another.

Vincent walked them to the edge, stepping out onto the floorboards. His robe was soaked and heavy, as was Sephiroth's wing. Vincent realized his arms were trembling, and there at the flower-strewn borders of the healing spring he sat down, to listen to Sephiroth's even breaths. The ex-SOLDIER sighed and shifted in his sleep, settling against Vincent's chest, water dripping off his wing into Aerith's flowers.

Vincent knelt there, shivering with wet and cold and relief. He would have to go back soon, to figure out what he would do now. They'd catch cold being soaked like this. But, for now he stayed still, briefly at peace. Sephiroth was breathing. Sephiroth was alive.

"Thank you," he whispered to the silence, and had no doubt this time that he was heard.

* * *

A/N: Gasp! A chapter! D : How is this possible?  
Happy Holidays, GNXmike! Told you I'd get it out in December. (shakes fist in triumph)  
I am really sorry for being away so long, guys. But I'm back, and I've revised the first four chapters of this fic so I like them much better now. So basically the whole story is newly polished.  
Minerva is hard to write! I hope she came across alright.  
Thank you, my patient readers, for liking this story, and I'm very sorry for the lagtime.  
You make me happy for reading  
~Alma


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